"The Evil Chateau"

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3451, 29 November 1932, Page 6

"The Evil Chateau"

By SYDNEY HORLER.

(All Rights Reserved.)

white wine in my room by the time I get hack. Will that be all right?" "But certainly, Monsieur." "Now for it, then," said the ex-clerk. He stepped through the door the concierge was holding open; "which way to the Galifornie, Benito?" "You can go by that gate," replied the concierge, pointing to the left; "turn to the left at the bottom of the street and keep straight on up the hill." Bill thanked him in his really dreadful French, and walked down the steps. Heritage was silent as they stepped out on to the gravelled drive. To Bill this prospective visit to a card-sharper was merely an interesting experience, just another more or less idle adventure. He had nothing personal at slake. For the past hour, he himself, however, had been possessed by a sense of dread expectancy. Something terrifying, he felt, was about to happen. It was as though he had been suddenly gifted with an ability to read the future. What this tragedy might be he had no idea —but that he was walking on the edge of a precipice he felt certain. He had thought of conveying something of this feeling of apprehension to Matcham, but believed that Bill, not understanding his state of mind, would merely laugh derisively. And any kind of laughter now would have jarred. Fate had dealt very strangely with him during the past few days; and, if any credence was to be placed in this sense of fore-knowledge which had come to him so uncannily, he was destined to have yet more weird experiences. From the soul-numbing humdrum of his former existence, he had been thrown into a life so spectacularly exciting as to be almost incredible. There was a lure in this danger-quest upon which he had been started by destiny, however, and he knew ne would not stop until he had come to the very end, wherever that might be. Although he paid tribute to the premonitions which had filled his mind for the past hour, he did not allow them to deter him. He was going through with this thing now that he had started. There would be no reward —he would be the worst kind of fool even to think that there might be —and the only satisfaction was that he would be keeping the promise he had made to himself. But that, and the knowledge that he was working for the girl whose memory would be with him to the end of his life, were sufficient. Bill characteristically broke In.

"Shiver me timbers, Steve, but you're as lively as a dumb man going lo a funeral! You'll have to speak now, if only to ask this cove the way. The Villa Laurent —see if he knows where it is; you know what my French is like." They were by this time in a dark, winding road, badly lit and ill-paved. Beyond an occasional motor-car which came screeching round one of the hairpin bends, they seemed to have the world to themselves. At the moment that Matcham spoke, however, an electric standard showed a French workman. He was swinging an umbrella and humming a tune. "But, yes," the native said when Stephen put the question, "Monsieur will find the Villa Laurent four hundred yards or so up on the right. It is a house with orange walls and blue blinds —very artistic, yes." Stephen, thanking him, had gone barely a dozen yards before he stopped. From behind them down the hill floated the sound of a laugh. All his foreboding returned. "Why should that fellow laugh?" he said to Matcham; "there was nothing funny in what I said, surely?" "Oh, come on, old man," was the somewhat impatient reply; "he's probably tickled to death at the thoughts of the garlic-stew that's waiting to be demolished when he gets home. And talking about stew, I feel I could eat an elephant—raw. Let's push on." Still vaguely uneasy—that laugh had seemed to him to hold a note of teethbared mockery—Heritage moved forward again. Bill, urged on by his hunger, was setting a stiff pace, and the next few hundred yards were covered quickly. "Villa Laurent," said Matcham, striking a match and looking at the name painted on a gate; "here we are. Hullo, there doesn't seemto be much doing, though—the blinking place isn't very inviting, what do you think, Steve?" Heritage, following the direction of the pointing finger, shuddered he knew not why: caution whispered a warning: "Keep away," it said "keep away!" The villa which stood back some fifty feet or so from the road where they now stood was in complete darkness. Not a light showed. It was just a humped mass of gloom, eerie somehow, and certainly forbidding. "Perhaps he lives round at the back," suggested Bill: "I'm going in, anyway. The fellow invited us to dinner, don't forget." "Keep away!" The voice of Caution whispered again to Heritage, but with Matcham already inside the gate, he had no alternative but to follow. It was a small, flat house of the usual stucco. There was a loggia in front and a door at the back of this which, when Matcham tried the handle, proved to be locked. The windows of both rooms in front had the blinds drawn. (To be Continued).

CHAPTER Xll.—(Continued.)

"And until he lias the necessary ofllcial permission to leave, Monsieur Heritage must remain in Cannes." "Neither of us had any idea of moving on for a bit, did we, Steve? Very well; we give you our word that we'll stay in Cannes until we hear from you again. Is that quite satisfactory?" "I will inform the Commisaaire," was the reply; "and now, please, we will go to the Bank." Matcham greeted the remark with an expletive. "Hell!" he said; "I was dying for a cup of tea But come along Sherlock " The Frenchman looked inquiringly at Caron. The latter, with a courteous smile, enlightened him. "Monsieur wishes you to know that he considers you a great detective." "Bien!" The frown disappeared at last.

CHAPTER XIII.—DEATH SENDS A MESSAGE. Meanwhile, not more than a mile away, Felicity was very busily engaged. By the afternoon post came a letter so long that it took her a full couple of hours to decipher it. Ostensibly it was a discursive, rambling account of a week-end her "uncle Fred" had spent at Steynings, Sussex, recently, and as such would have been voted insufferably dull by anyone unfortunate enough to have read it. But when the code she employed gave up its secrets, Felicity sat back and pondered. This was a great thing—a tremendously great thing. Her godfather, Sir Godfrey Barringer, had sent startling news. Information had come in from various sources, he said, to the effect that very real trouble was being brewed against Britain in consequence of recent pacts she had signed and that the instigators thereof were reported to be travelling as fast as a train, steamer, and aeroplane could carry them to formulate their final plans at a big meeting. The Chief of Z.l. added that he had reason to believe this meeting would be held shortly at either Cannes, Nice, or Monte Carlo. "I'm banking on Cannes," he added. "The object of these people is to bring about another war in which this country would become involved. If they were successful in doing so would stand to make millions. They are thoroughly unscrupulous and very powerful. I would give my left hand to know exactly what devilry they are plotting." There was a great deal more, but this was the gist of the message. Felicity was bidden to increase her vigilance.

After carefully burning her notes, she lit a cigarette and gave herself over to that dreamy state which induces concentrated thought. She had a great deal to think about —first, the death of Gerry Westover; then the invitation which she hourly expected to receive from the Count de la Siagne; then this message from Barringer; and, last but by no means least, the meeting with the man Stephen Heritage. The memory of the talk that afternoon was still very fresh in her mind. She was able to recall the vibrant quality of his voice, the eagerness with which he had spoken. It did not require much imagination to believe that the man was in danger of being in love with her. Strangely enough, the idea did not seem grotesque; although she dismissed it quickly, she did not regard it with contempt. Perhaps this was because, she told herself, that the man represented a new type; the marked, almost j exaggerated respect he had paid her was in vivid contrast to the careless, offhand manner of the average man of her class. And then, with what charming deference and humility he had offered her h°lp- altogether a quite delightful man, but .... But it was time to dress, she deeded. I # * # # ! At the precise moment that Felicity ! entering the dining saloon of the Mont Floury, became the centre of attraction, the many who still hovered on the threshold of her thoughts, turned to his companion and said: "It's halfpast seven —let's get along." The rest of the Chester crowd had gone into dinner. Bill Matcham watched the door close behind the last of the saunterers with a speculative eye. "I hope this Hewitt bloke feeds his pigeons before rooking 'em," he said. "Oh, I know, I know: you're all soul at the moment, but x feel all stomach. Anyhow, here's hoping for the best. No harm in that, I suppose?" The "concierge" peeped out of his little office where the telephone was fixed, and asked: "Can I get you a taxi, Messieurs?" Heritage answered. "No, thanks, Benito. We're dining out and Mr Matcham intends to get an appetite by walking." "Not half I don't," corroborated Matcham; "look here, Benito, to be on the safe side I'll get you to leave a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of